TO DALLAS AND STRAIGHT BACK: MEGAFAUNA, MURILLO & MILADY

PART 1: A STORY THAT IS ALL BEGINNINGS

This story begins in so many different places that there really is no one set beginning, but the Greatest Common Denominator is roughly January 2022. I’ve bowled competitively since my freshman year of high school, and in the slightly backhanded words of my coach, I “have a future less on the bowling side of things and more on the service side of things.” A nice way of saying: I suck, but if I was down for some volunteering, she’d oblige. This strange conversation happened at the beginning of my sophomore year, and a semester later, she told be I should consider running for a position of the Board of Directors at the state level.

The way bowling is laid out, you have your local associations, and then the state associations, both are chapters of one organization: USBC (the United States Bowling Congress). Both operate relatively separate of each other, but there is a still a distinct hierarchy of order between the local, state, and national level. Why she insisted on me running for the state board I can only attribute to good faith and a daring instinct, but by the end of January I’d sent in my application, and in mid-May, I was chosen as the new Youth Director, (one of two). This position came with minimal requirements, but the biggest of which was my attendance at two annual meetings in the wonderful city of Dallas, in November and May.

This is the next beginning of the story, six months later, November 17th, a regular school day Thursday, only right after I get home from school, I immediately leave for Dallas. Four hours and Fifty minutes later there I was. While this road trip was on the longer side of many I’ve undertaken in the past, it was arguably one of the most enjoyable. It was my mom and me in the car with lots of gas station snacks, and the joyous sounds of my mixtapes (I and II) playing from the car stereo. Modern cars no longer carry the option for cassette tapes, but if they had, I would’ve brought my cassette mixtapes, too.

It’s important to note that for this trip, I was wearing a thin beige shirt with brown embroidered palm trees on the front, which the tag self-reports to be “resortwear,” and chocolate brown cotton slacks from Banana Republic. In hindsight this is unimportant to note, but just know the outfit was comfortable and looked really cute. Something that is important for you to know, however, is that it was cold. Really cold. The kind of cold that makes your chest titillate with every inhale. The cold that nobody south of San Antonio is accustomed to. The cold of a true winter.

That night I barely slept a wink due to nervousness, insecurity, and unbridled hormones (wink wink), But I was up promptly at 7 AM the next day ready for whatever came my way. The latter part of the statement is an interesting way of putting things, because there is really no way to quantify my level of preparedness. I definitely don’t bowl enough to know a lot of the terminology that went on within the meetings, but the meetings themselves were the easiest playing fields I ever had the pleasure of turning my pant knees green in. So simple, that the way I’ve been describing it to everybody who’s asked is “a room full of old people for two days.” Of course, commenting on the age of my fellow board members is inappropriate, but oh my lord they were old.

The other Youth Director, and a former Youth Director that returned as an adult were the only other people in the room from the same generation as me. We even had the pleasure of hosting a PowerPoint-aided lesson on how to use Instagram. The PowerPoint was something we put together last-minute on Friday in between meetings and homework-cram sessions, and was presented Saturday during the general board meeting. Friday’s agenda was an array of different committee meetings and consisted of me running between the hotel conference room, and my hotel room to try and finish my Pre-Calculus homework due the same day.

At the end of the day Friday, I finally got to crawl under the covers of my bed, order from the hotel restaurant, and watch King Kong. Not sure why that was on TV, but I enjoyed it nonetheless.

Suffice to say, my weekend was booked, but the other board members were brimming with southern hospitality, and the Thanksgiving Luncheon catered by the hotel on Friday was surprisingly of quality. I fear that I’m coming off as pretentious, but I assure you that my preconceived notions of these people were the product of fear and not acrimony. However, I am happy to say this was one of the best things I’d done for myself in a long time, and as boring as it may sound, I really enjoyed it.

PART II: NOMADIC TENDENCIES

My duty as the Texas State USBC Youth Director ended at 1:00 PM on Saturday, November the 19th. To be resumed in six months in May of 2023 (if you don’t count the work I will continue to do throughout that time by running the Instagram account and liaising to local associations). However, I did not yet have the right to rest, and my embroidered Texas State USBC windbreaker was switched out for a thicker winter jacket.

To make the most of our time in Dallas, my mom and I went out to Las Colinas, and recreated photos my parents took nearly 30 years ago when they lived in Dallas – the first American city they lived in. Los Colinas is home to another form of giant animal: Mustangs. These nine massive horses gallop through a geometric crevasse in the ground. Treading through running water, timelessly frozen in space.

Pictured below are two shots recreated on film (Kodak 200 Gold, FYI). Keen observers may notice the striking resemblance I bear to the people whose loins I was birthed from.

After our little photo recreation session, my dear mother and I visited the Kimbell Art Museum in nearby Fort Worth (God Bless the Texan Megalopolis). We were inspired to head to the Kimbell by a tri-fold pamphlet from the hotel lobby. That pamphlet advertised a Kimbell exhibition showing two different paintings depicting the story of Judith and Holofernes. These same two paintings were use by my AP Language and Composition teacher who made us write a variety of exercises on them. What a silly little way to find out that no part of her lesson was actually original. After nearly freezing our fingers off to take our photos, we arrived at the Kimbell’s minimalist parking garage. On the way into the museum my mom discovered that there was a Murillo exhibit. Something I overlooked when reading the pamphlet because I really didn’t care, but Murillo is to her, what Nam June Paik is to me: an artistic lover. An artist whose work embraces you whenever you need. For this is what art is supposed to be: a connection between the artist and you.

Bartolomé Esteban Murillo is a Spanish painter from the mid-1600s, whose work is renown for depicting poverty earnestly. Despite commission from The Church, Murillo’s paintings held sympathy on the impoverished. Oftentimes showing poor children, flea-ridden and filthy, playing games in the streets of his hometown Sevilla. I’m sure I could say more about that, that my mother identifies herself with an empathetic painter because she herself often acts selflessly. That she sympathizes with the children in the painting because of her maternal instincts. Perhaps the biblical images are her favorite; but I’d rather say none of that.

PART 3: PRELAPSARIAN CIVILITY, OR WHATEVER THAT MEANS

Obsessed with our own images, like that white boy they named the flower after, my mom and I took some more photos outside the Kimbell museum. Nearly freezing to death in the novel cold of a Mid-Texas winter was likely the cause of the dreadful cold I had for the rest of the week. After the museum we then re-boarded of trans-county vessel (2016 Ford Escape) and drove down to Conroe! On the way there, we had the misfortune of encountering a theatre-kid infested Buc-ee’s that the Texas Thespians who were also leaving Dallas were roaming around in.

This story now restarts once more as we enter our third act. A clever plan from my parents (the same minds which brought you me), our trip to Dallas was combined into a trip to the Renaissance Festival, with the addition of my sister, coming home from Lubbock. This was the second time my sister came home since she moved 10 hours away – the last one being her birthday in October – and there’s never a reason why I wouldn’t want to see my sister. She flew down to Houston - where she spent the rest of the week with us for Thanksgiving break – but drove up to Conroe with my dad. An 1¼ hour long ride, short compared to the three hours coming down from Dallas my mom and I had to drive to meet in the middle.

That Sunday my entire family, now reunited, partook in a tradition that we’ve continued for years: walking around in the muddy fairgrounds of the Texas Renaissance Festival. Enjoying turkey legs, and those weird people that sit around in costumes asking for tips as if you begged them to be there. It rained a little, but that always adds to the experience. My mom said her favorite part of the Renaissance Festival is when the turnstile ticket person calls you “Milady” after they admit you onto the grounds. My favorite part used to be the rides. My sister’s favorite part are the turkey legs. I think my new favorite part is just being there, the four of us.

And this is the story’s end.